


Skip the heartache (I've got classes to teach)

by neverweremine



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Post-X2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28566315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverweremine/pseuds/neverweremine
Summary: Logan grunted his 'don't mention it,' grunt. Scott concentrated on the glass in his hand, the water rippling in time with his breaths. In his time as an X-Men, Scott had fought men, monsters, and machines. He'd traveled the world, dodged missiles in a Mach 7 jet, even gone to different dimensions, but this had to take the cake for surrealist experience."Relax," whispered Logan, "I ain't gonna kill ya."
Relationships: Logan (X-Men)/Scott Summers
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2020





	Skip the heartache (I've got classes to teach)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greywrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywrites/gifts).



> Note: Since this is an american setting, I used an english-sounding name for Hanahaki. So heads up, pulmoflorosis is just my shitty american version of Hanahaki.
> 
> Note: This is Post X2 but X-Men 3, Last Stand Does Not Exist.

"What d'ya got there, Slim?"

A cloud moved over the sun, casting shadows over the patio they'd sequestered. Scott handed Logan the bottle wordlessly. It didn't take long for the other man to read the label, a grin stretching from ear to ear. "Now this is the good stuff," he said.

It wasn't. Not really. It was a scant more expensive than what they usually got, but gas station beer was still gas station beer. Scott half-suspected the favorability lied in the fact that it was Canadian-made, Logan's nationalistic side both flabbergasting and charming in its simplicity.

They opened their bottles. Scott took a sip of his and let the crisp bitterness sink in his throat, then held his beer between them.

"To Jean," he said.

Logan clinked their bottles together. "To Jeannie."

.

"You'd think in a school where all the faculty live in the same building, there'd be better communication between us," commiserated Ororo. Scott paused in the doorway, his mind running through potential issues that could've spawned between last month's meeting and today's. Try as he might, nothing came to mind. They handled the burnt rooms, and the kids sneaking out after curfew, and the case of the ice cream thief…

"Let me guess," he said after taking quick stock of the room. "Logan left on 'vacation' again."

"Yesterday evening," answered Hank. "I saw him as he was leaving. When I asked when he might grace us with his return, his response was, 'I'll tell you when I get back.'"

A soft whistle of air escaped Scott's nose. "Good riddance," he said. He took his seat next to the Professor and pulled out his notes. "Maybe now we can have some peace and quiet."

"No need to be so hasty, Scott," chided the Professor. "As they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder. I'm sure by the time Logan returns, you will have missed him dearly."

Amused chuckles spread across the room. Scott didn't roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. "With all due respect, Professor, I very much doubt that."

.

Regardless of the missing faculty member, the meeting went off without a hitch. The school had gone over their planned budget because of the scorched rooms, but no one was harmed and the school's attendance and GPA were high, so Scott called the meeting, satisfied. He'd have been _more_ satisfied if he could've discussed with Logan his Danger Room proposals, but he had learned to take what he could get from short, hairy Canadians with anger problems.

School started up again for the spring semester and Logan, of course, hadn't yet returned, but the students and faculty didn't worry. Their Wolverine was prone to wandering, even now, years since joining the school. It was predictable. Familiar. Scott wouldn't have given it a second thought, except he had to, because he had paperwork he couldn't file without Logan's signature, and so it sat there, taunting him.

And taunting him.

.

.

.

And taunting him.

.

"Why don't you go ahead with the proposal, anyway?" asked Ororo over a cup of morning coffee. "We both know he's going to say yes, regardless."

"He could say no to be contrary," pointed out Scott, ever aware of her correctness. The proposal offered improvements to the Danger Room which Logan had been lobbying for to begin with. Still, it was the principle of the matter.

"You can call him," she suggested, smiling, before her brow dipped and her smile fell into a grimace. "Wait, no. Bad idea. He might come back to stab you."

After much insistence, Logan had promised to keep his phone with him during his sojourns elsewhere, but any phone call that wasn't an emergency promised a pissed off Wolverine, and no one wanted that. If only Rogue were still around, she could call him without retribution. But she had graduated and gone on with life, as kids were wont to do, and thus, their dilemma.

"I swear, he needs an intervention on how much vacation time's allowed. This is getting ridiculous."

"Not it," Ororo said, a quiet gleam in her eye. "Good luck with that, Team Leader."

He groaned and hung his head.

.

Scott stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over Logan's number.

.

.

.

He turned off his phone.

.

The hockey finals were starting today. A pack of Canadian beer sat waiting in the teacher's lounge fridge, unopened. Logan's favorite team had been knocked out earlier in the season. Scott watched the game, empty-handed, Logan's usual armchair vacant beside him. He let the kids take control of the TV before the puck even hit the ice, and then headed to bed early with a slight cough.

.

It had only been a week and a half since Logan left. The gruff outdoorsman hadn't called or texted them, but that wasn't so unusual. Worrying over the man with a fast-rate healing factor was ineffectual bordering on absurdity, so he didn't… except rapid-rate healing or not, trouble was still possible. Capture, mind control, amnesia; the chances were low, but—

"Mr. Summers?"

He snapped out of his daze, tearing his eyes away from the window and the view of the front gates. His throat itched as the class stared at him. Coughing into his first, he waved away the concern floating through the air. "I'm fine. Sorry, got a little distracted." He swallowed an uncomfortable lump in his throat and picked up his book. "Where were we?"

.

Contrary to whatever popular belief ran rampant throughout the school, Scott Summers knew how to care for himself. Yes, sometimes he'd forsake first aid during missions, but only during emergencies and foe the greater good. Every other time he did as was recommended: attended his doctor appointments, visited his dentist every six months — a regular optometrist wasn't plausible, for obvious reasons, but if he could, he would have. And so, when his cough persisted, like a good commanding officer, he headed straight to the doctor's office.

.

"This is strange," said Hank as he pressed his stethoscope to Scott's chest. "There's an obstruction in your lungs."

"Water?" asked Scott. He'd taken to swimming now that spring had shown its face, but he thought the chances of water in his lungs were low.

"I'm not sure," said Hank. "I think we need to take a few X-ray scans, just to be safe.

Scott raised a brow but didn't question it. He hoped it wasn't serious.

.

It was serious.

.

Pulmoflorosis, a rare lung disease affecting those suffering from unrequited love. Not much was known on the exact conditions needed for the disease or why it only affected people suffering unrequited love. Or more importantly, why it affected him, who was not in love. At all. He said as much to Hank.

"Well," mused Hank, taking off his glasses, "are you sure you're not in love?"

"In love?" scoffed Scott. "With who? I haven't been on a date since…"

The silence spoke the words that Scott could not.

"Met anyone new recently?"

"Between teaching, missions, and administration? Not a chance."

"Then maybe the person you're pining after is someone closer to home?" Hank tossed the suggestion out as one tossed a wrapper over their shoulder, humming to himself before rolling away on his office chair. He was unaware of the existential crisis he'd left his patient in as he checked blood samples and x-rays, and Scott breathed in deep the terrifying implications from that single sentence with a knee-jerk reaction in his chest, shouting that Hank had hit a home run.

Someone closer to home…

_What if…?_

.

The Professor's words echoed in his head. " _Absence makes the heart grow fonder_." He ignored it.

.

"Well, can you get rid of it?" asked Scott.

Hank raised two furry brows. "I'm flattered by your trust in me, Scott, but this needs a proper, specialized surgeon. Pulmoflorosis is rare. Extremely rare. If I had a better grasp of the disease or the damage it can cause — but I don't. I prefer to reserve my impromptu surgeries for an actual emergency. From what I gather, pulmoflorosis is easily cured if it's caught early and you aren't coughing blood up yet, so I'd say we caught it early."

" _Blood_?"

.

Besides Hank, his condition was kept secret. The kids needn't worry and as much as he loved Ororo and Kurt; they were far too keen on him 'expressing' himself. Better to save his pride and not inform them. He didn't tell the Professor either, though the man might've been made aware anyhow, thanks to his telepathy. If he had, he gave Scott no indications, allowing him the illusion of privacy. Logan… still hadn't come back yet, but even if he had, Scott doubted the man wanted to listen to his woes, and so he was resolved not to tell him.

And so, that was his convictions...at first.

.

The first petals worked their way up during a Danger Room session. Small and saliva-slick, curled into a ball as it expelled out of his trachea, he took a brief breather but didn't bother pausing the simulation as holographic enemies rushed him and so, it was only natural they became forgotten. It wasn't until later, the simulation completed, that he doubled back.

The petals had dried and unfurled by the time he returned and they laid on the floor, a red-orange color which, with his ruby-tinted glasses, meant their actual color ranged anywhere from yellow to white to orange to a color in between. He bent his knees for a closer look and found them familiar… The petal curled in on itself to a slight degree and had a distinct crease in the middle… He'd seen these types of flowers before, but—

Then it occurred to him. Lilies. They were lilies. The same flowers he placed on Jean's grave every year. Lilies, or... funeral flowers.

Since his impromptu diagnosis, Scott had done cursory research on the disease. Among scientific symptoms and scholarly articles, there had been a few anecdotal websites here and there, where between long-winded casserole recipes with mundane backstories and DIY bookbinding tutorials, came second and third-hand accounts of 'the romantic flower disease'. In these third-hand accounts were claims that the flowers had symbolic and spiritual meaning one shouldn't ignore. The blog posts weren't any more specific than that, no scientific data to prove it, and somehow always ended in a clickbait link titled, ' _Twelve perfect bouquets for loved ones with deep meaning_ ,' which, in Scott's mind, justified never sparing these types of websites more than a glance, but now…

What if they did have meaning? Lilies, a flower used for funerals, for a love dearly departed… Lord knows he still loved Jean, even if it had been a while since he'd thought of her. Lord knows he wished him by her side every day. But why now? Why, when he thought he'd been able to finally move on from her?

It was an absurd notion, one he should never have entertained. Flowers only had meaning because people attached meaning to them; a disease didn't account for that. Illness didn't care for symbolism, and this wasn't a Shakespeare novel. Still, he pinched the soft-silk petal between his thumb and forefinger and pocketed it.

.

"They're orange," Ororo stated. She lowered her trowel and picked up her watering can. "Orange lilies, to be exact. Should I be wondering, why, exactly, you have orange lily petals on you, Scott?"

"It's not what you think," said Scott truthfully, though he winced as the words escaped his lips. Asking anyone else but Ororo had been out of the question. She was the resident botany expert, after all, but she was also an expert at seeing through the walls he erected as if they were mesh curtains.

"Whatever you say." Finished watering her plant, she replaced her can with shears and started pruning. "Was that all you needed?"

He should say yes. He should stay far away from her all-seeing gaze, but he'd been lonely lately, and it had been a long time since he'd stepped in the greenhouse. "Need help?" he asked.

Later, equipped with his own gardening gloves and mind occupied with the simple task of fertilizing, watering, and pruning, Ororo struck.

"It's not a crime if you move on."

"I know," he cut off a dead branch. The snap of the shears sounded loud in his ears

"Do you?"

"I do." The shears were too near to his gloves, and he readjusted.

"She won't resent you for it. It's been years, Scott."

Years. Years and it still ached, but lesser. Scott breathed in dirt and fertilizer and spring and pressed his eyes shut. Behind his eyelids stood Jean in a spring dress and a wide-brimmed hat she'd gotten from a farmer's market, twirling round and round. She was smiling, her laughter bright, though faint. He didn't chase the memory, having learned better from grief-fueled nights, letting it play out — the wind ruffling her skirt, her hand clutching her hat, the light dancing along her bare arms — before fading as it inevitably did.

"I… I don't think I'm afraid to move on anymore," he admitted. "I have to, eventually. It's only a matter of readiness. The concept of finding the right person, again… It's," he gave a mirthless chuckle, "it's daunting. I need more time to wrap my head around it."

She hummed as she gathered her thoughts, the greenhouse silent save for snipping and the brush of leaves. Finally, she spoke: "Well, a bit of advice for when you _are_ ready: don't look for someone like Jean. You'll do them both a disservice if you do. Find someone new. Find the opposite of Jean and don't compare them because if you do, you'll be comparing apples to oranges. Got it?"

Sage advice from Ororo once again. He nodded. Their elbows bumped as they worked and her humming started again, filling the air with a soft, exquisite melody.

"Ororo?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

She smiled. "Anytime, Scott."

.

Getting his hands on a book of flower meanings was as easy as waltzing into the school's library and picking it off the shelf. Finding the page on lilies as simple as consulting the index. His pointer finger traced past white, pink, and red lilies before finally landing on orange.

' _Orange lilies_ ,' he read, ' _symbolize pride, wealth, and confidence, but taken to their extreme measures can mean disdain, hatred, and arrogance.'_

" _That's vague_ ," came his first thought. " _How's one supposed to differentiate between extreme and normal?"_

His second thought was, " _If the extreme measure applies, then it sounds like I'm in love with Logan."_

Oh.

Oh no.

.

"So," he sighed to the gravestone, "it looks like we _both_ have bad taste."

.

"At least I'm following Ororo's advice," he thought, rather maniacally at the dead of night.

.

Other flowers came: carnations, chrysanthemums, rockets. To minimize suspicion, he tried identifying their meaning on his own, but flower symbolism relied on color to which he had a distinct disadvantage. He could ask Ororo for help, or even any other person who called the school home, but he let it go. Asking the color of a flower was innocuous on its own, but several flowers, which he got from nowhere? No, it'd raise too much attention.

Then it got worse; the restless nights as he tried to sleep through obstructed lungs. Bumping his toe into the corner of the bathroom door as he rushed to the sink. Waking in the morning with baggy eyes to blood congealed next to the drain as he tasted copper on his tongue and the back of his teeth.

He coughed and it sounded as if a rat died in his throat. With these symptoms like neon signs, it wouldn't be too long until everyone learned of the disease, or worse, until his fellow staff relinquished him from his X-Men duties.

He needed to take care of this.

.

"I can't afford that!"

The man over the phone had a sympathetic tone but wasn't budging. He listed medical supplies, surgeon availability, surgery prep, the rarity of the disease, risk factors, post-surgery medicine to ensure a smooth recovery, etcetera, etcetera. It all added up to nothing less than price gouging, but what did he expect from the American health system?

He cut the man halfway through. "Is there any way to lower the price?"

Scott listened with increasing incredulity as the man continued. They wanted him to _what_?

"I can't — I'm sorry, but that's not possible."

"Then I'm sorry, Mr. Summers," said the agent, "There is no other way."

He thanked the man for his time, then hung up.

He had options to weigh.

.

"You're going for it?" asked Hank. "Without finding out who the person you're pining for is?"

"Oh, I figured that out. I actually need you to sign this for me, if you can."

He handed the packet over. Hank grabbed his glasses and put them on, peering over his lenses at the tiny words. He was reading, Scott was sure, but Hank was also curious and capable of pulling an amazing 'paying attention while pretending not to' face.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"..."

"I won't sign — can't sign, really — without knowing who it is."

Scott sighed. "Don't — don't judge me too much, okay? It's not like I wanted this to happen. It's…"

.

Logan returned two weeks after he left, the motorcycle he stole roaring as he drove through the front gates on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Scott prepared his papers the moment he heard the familiar engine, careful to keep them in the order he put them in. This only worked if he did everything right. He walked to the door then deliberated a minute before doubling back and grabbing a pack of beer. At this point, alcohol could only help.

.

"You missed a faculty meeting," Scott stated as he sat. His nose scrunched as cigar smoke drifted his way, but they were outside and he had no grounds for argument. He set the bribery on the table.

"I always miss faculty meetings. Hey, what's with the — " Logan gestured to the bottles, "There an anniversary I missed or somethin'?"

Scott then dropped the stack of paperwork. It was a nice stack. A thick stack. It gave a meaty thud as it dropped on the tiny patio table; the bottles clinking as it got used to the new center of gravity. "Please don't claw through these. I only made one copy." False, he had made several, but one little white lie shouldn't hurt, right?

"Liar," scoffed Logan. He grabbed a beer and popped the top off with a claw. "And I only tore through paperwork that one time."

"And if by one time you mean a dozen," murmured Scott. He pulled out a pen, clicked it, and handed it to Logan, who scooted closer to the stack with a put-upon growl.

"You should'a just signed my name fer me," grumbled Logan. "I wouldn't'a complained."

"That's not how it works."

Though, now that Logan was back and closer than ever, Scott wondered if it _should_ work that way. His throat itched and his eyes watered from it. Thankfully, his shades covered his blinking and watering eyes, but it didn't stop his throat from bobbing or his face from turning red. He tilted his head away and coughed once. It was as unsatisfying as holding a sneeze in. He coughed again, but that only opened the floodgates, his second cough transforming into a fit.

"Hey, you okay?" asked Logan. "You sound like you're dying." He snubbed his cigar in the ashtray.

"I'm fine."

"You're lying."

"Wasn't aware I was sitting next to a lie detector."

"Don't push yourself too hard, Slim. Don't wanna carry you to the med bay. Again."

Slim. A simple nickname, thrown around in the same casual manner Logan threw out all his nicknames, but it had been so long, and the words bordering on doting, that for a moment, Scott revelled in the sound with joyous abandon. Then, because he was a grown man with a mission to carry out, he shoved those feelings aside and boxed them where they belonged, far away from the surface.

"Let's get this over with," he said.

They spent the next five minutes in silence with Scott directing Logan where to sign. Logan, of course, had two working eyes and, despite every sign to the contrary, possessed a brain capable of higher thought; he could sign these by himself, but they'd become accustomed to this routine: Scott hovering nearby to make sure each paper was signed in a neat and prompt manner and Logan sniping at Scott to take his mind off the mundanity of it. Any minute now, Logan will his big mouth and say—

"You can ask."

A weird start to their usual repartee, but Scott would not be taken off guard. "Ask what?" he asked, cautiously.

"I know you, Slim." Get a grip, Summers. It's only a nickname. "You're nosy, wanna have everyone in your sight at all times, and know where everyone is to ease yer rampant paranoid. So go ahead, ask where I've been."

Whatever fluttering feelings Scott held vanished as the words left Logan's mouth. He remembered the orange lilies. _Arrogance_. Sounds about right. He shoved the next paper hard to Logan's chest and tapped at the dotted line, "Sign here."

Logan signed without even a glance at the paper. Good. "'m surprised you didn't call," he said, shoving the paper back harder, "Was waiting for you to."

Was he? Or was he only mocking him?

"I was busy."

The conversation ended there, and the patio descended into silence. Scott cursed himself. They were getting close to the form, and the conversation had been an excellent distraction. He eyed the stack. Three more to go.

"Where were you?" he asked.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" smirked Logan. The man was _insufferable_. Of all the people to develop a life-threatening disease for, and it had to be this piece of work. He must've done something wrong in a past life.

"That would be why I asked."

"Where do you think I was?"

"The Bermuda Triangle?"

"Wrong."

Scott shuffled the paper aside and pointed at the signature. Logan didn't spare a glimpse before writing his name in ink. Two more to go.

"A seedy sports bar with questionable stains and a TV that played hockey?"

"Slim, hate to say it, but I think you're stereotyping me. What am I, a thug in a B-cop movie? C'mon, you think I spent two weeks in a bar?"

"Are you saying you didn't?"

"Only for one week." Logan smiled, and then he did the worst thing imaginable. He looked down. "What's this?" he asked.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Health insurance forms. It might be unnecessary for you, but it's compulsory for all staff." His voice was even. He knew it was because he had practiced it in front of the mirror until he had ironed out the tremors, but Logan had super senses and he must've picked up on an infinitesimal quaver that Scott couldn't because he raised the packet for a better read. It was then that Scott recognized his failure. Every bit of planning: the strategic placing of the form, the beer…

All for naught.

 _"I, the recipient, insert signature here, acknowledge that I have no romantic feelings for the patient, insert signature here, and I never will. By signing this, I have acknowledged the patient will undergo surgery and when surgery is completed, will no longer have romantic, and potentially platonic, feelings for the recipient_ — Slim, what the fuck is this?"

With his ruby shades, Scott had perfected the art of a stoic face. His head tilted towards the papers, but his gaze zeroed in on Logan as the man's eyes darted to the top of the page. "Pulmoflorosis," he read. "Isn't that the flower disease on all the soaps? Ya got feelings for me, Slim?" He started laughing, loud and braying.

Scott stayed silent.

Logan stopped laughing.

"The heart wants what the heart wants, I guess," said Scott. His throat burned, tight and restrictive; this time, not because of any flowers.

"And you want...me?"

Scott, because god knows he needed it most, took a beer from the pack and twisted it open. He took a long swig, welcoming the burn as it travelled down his throat. "Just sign the damn paperwork, Logan."

A spring breeze flew past them. This early, it still held the bite of winter but otherwise: the sun shone, birds chirped from their nests, the kids were chasing each other across the front lawn — and while he had grown sick of the scent, the fragrance of flowers floated in the air. 'Twas a perfect spring day, if it weren't for the surrealness that surrounded them in a bubble. 'Twas a perfect spring day, if it weren't for the fact that Logan's pen wasn't moving.

"I don't get it," he said. "You hate me."

"I do," agreed Scott. He took a longer gulp of the frosty beer.

"But you love me too? What the fuck? What do you even like about me?"

"I wasn't aware this was 'fishing for compliments' hour."

"What is this even for?" Logan began flipping through the hefty health insurance packet the agent emailed him, but the ten-dollar words and tiny print seemed too much for him.

Well, it wasn't like the cat wasn't already out of the bag.

"It's a document confirming you rejected me. You sign here," he tapped at the line next to 'the recipient'. "I sign here," he tapped the line next to 'the patient'. "Hank signs here," he dragged his finger to the line above the words 'Witness' Signature'. "We send it to the insurance company and I can get the surgery without bankrupting myself, and we can never speak of this again.

Logan kept flipping through the packet. Scott, of course, had read through it himself, front and back. It was a contract. The gist was as follows: the recipient or patient couldn't sue anyone for undergoing the surgery, for any emotional damages caused by the lack of emotion that followed post-surgery, or for any 'missed chances' that the recipient or patient felt they had once those feelings no longer existed. He'd reassured the agent over the phone the needlessness of signing the contract, but the guy had been firm. "Company policy, sir," he said, and so here they were.

"Say it."

"Huh?"

Logan tossed the packet back on the table. "Say you love me and I'll sign it."

Of course, Logan had to make it difficult. Scott's hand clenched around the bottle and for a split second he had the vivid and gratifying image of smashing it over Logan's face, but they were on the patio, in plain view, and he needed to be an exemplary role model for the kids…

Whatever. The sooner he did it, the sooner he could bury himself back in work. Swallowing his pride, he faced Logan head-on; shoulders squared, chin up. He'd faced sentinels and kidnappers and Magneto. Confessing to an asshole should be no problem.

"I… love you."

He said it. Those three words. The three words he'd only said to one other person before. The words sounded stiff and robotic even to his own ears, and his throat was raw as sandpaper so it came out cracked, but he did it. It was a love confession born more from perfunctory transaction than any passion, but he did it.

"Is this how you confessed to Jeannie?" The derision was crystal clear in Logan's voice. "C'mon, I know you can do better than that."

Familiar irritation welled in Scott's chest and he clung to it as if a man in the middle of a tsunami. "Logan, just sign the damn papers. The health insurance won't pay out until they get the form so," he gestured impatiently with the beer bottle. "Trust me, I'm not happy about this situation either, but it is what it is."

Except Logan never followed directions. He twirled the pen in his hands, far from the dotted line, "Why can't you have Charles pay for it? He's rich."

"Fiscal responsibility, and if you were at the faculty meeting, you'd realize we've already gone way over budget. Remodeling those rooms weren't cheap."

Logan hummed. He picked up the packet again; considering. And then he set it down. Asshole. "You still haven't answered the question. Why little ol' me? I'd think I'm the last person you'd get goo-goo eyes for."

"Are you really going to force me to explain how it's you?"

"Yeah. What, you get butterflies every time you see me or somethin'?"

"If by butterflies, you mean an urge to punch you?"

Logan grunted. It was a considering grunt, low and drawn out, and Scott hated himself for learning what a person's grunts meant and for entrapping himself in this hellscape of his own creation in the first place. Finally, Logan popped out his claws and before Scott could blink, the stapled packet was nothing more than shredded paper floating in the wind.

"Logan!" he shouted. "I — you — You told me you'd sign if I—"

"Yeah, well, I lied," Logan said blithely. "Have fun coughin' up petals, bub." And with that, the Canadian walked away, leaving behind a half-empty beer bottle, a solitary pen, and one fuming Scott Summers.

.

A few days of careful avoidance and long solo training sessions later, and Scott was on his last threads. Replacing every holographic enemy with Logan had been fulfilling for the first few days as he unleashed his optic blasts on them, but also tiring. One would think that meant collapsing a comfortable rest, but that relied on a universe capable of mercy.

He'd gotten as little as ten minutes of sleep before his lungs rattled in his chest and he was coughing onto the hardwood floor as blood mixed with petals, flowers, and saliva splattered onto the floor. The flowers and petals were the straightforward part so far, but the blood kept sinking back down and settling into his lungs because apparently plasma was harder than solids on the war against gravity. Who knew?

Scott was just about to move himself to the bathroom when a pounding knock thudded on his door. He closed his eyes. 'Not him,' he begged. 'Anyone but him.'

But as stated before, the universe had no mercy.

"Ya wanna keep it down in there? Some people are trying to sleep."

Scott continued coughing and then, when the itching and scratching finally seemed to stop, the door nudged open and the lights flicked on. "I'm sorry, I'll die quieter," he snapped as Logan stepped into his room. His coughing started up again, and he threw an arm over his mouth, not that Logan was at any risk of catching it, but it was the polite thing to do. Two boots stopped inches away from the mess on the floor.

"Those boots better be clean," he warned between coughs. A stray petal floated to land on black shoelaces.

"Tch." Logan's feet stepped out of view and Scott wondered what Logan was thinking, if he found him pathetic or hopeless or an entire list of other disparaging insults they no doubt slung at each other in the past. In the bathroom, the sink turned on. Scott barely heard the rush of water over his coughing.

When the boots returned, it came with a glass of water. Scott took it and drank gratefully. Then the bed dipped and a generous hand was rubbing circles on his back.

"Thanks," he said when the coughs finally died down.

Logan grunted his 'don't mention it,' grunt. Scott concentrated on the glass in his hand, the water rippling in time with his breaths. In his time as an X-Men, Scott had fought men, monsters, and machines. He'd traveled the world, dodged missiles in a Mach 7 jet, even gone to different dimensions, but this had to take the cake for surrealist experience.

"Relax," whispered Logan, "I ain't gonna kill ya."

It was Scott's turn to scoff, but he forced himself to relax. They were pressed up against each other, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Belatedly, Scott realized, he'd been afraid of this, afraid of losing this. After Logan shredded those papers, he had resigned himself to giving up whatever companionship they shared: the shared beers after class, the hockey games they watched together, the rare but welcome camaraderie during missions. For once, he was glad to be wrong, even if this closeness wasn't guaranteed — but if it was, if they could still exist as this, even after the surgery, then their future might not be so bleak as he imagined.

.

"Hey." A shaking stirred him. He lifted his head from its perch on a warm shoulder. "I ain't nobody's pillow, bub. You wanna go to sleep then sleep on your own damn bed."

"Well, then get out," said Scott. The words came easily, if only a smidge sleep-slurred. He waited for Logan to move, but he didn't, and so he didn't either. It was _his_ room.

"Hey," Logan said again a minute later, quieter this time. Serious. "If I hadn't read the fine print in time—if I signed the papers without looking too close like ya planned, what was next? What would be happenin' right now?"

Scott closed his eyes and lifted his glasses, rubbing at the crust and mucus. He lowered his glasses. "Well, I would've mailed the paperwork, talked to the health insurance agent to figure out the new price and payment plan, then scheduled my surgery. Might've been done with it by now. The hospital prioritizes those on the waiting list with proper insurance."

"And ya would've done all that...without tellin' me?"

Whatever easy-going, late-night moment they had vanished at the line of questioning. Tension hung tight in the room like a rope pulled taut. One wrong word and it was liable to snap, but he'd barely woken and his brain still had the fuzzies, and out came:

"I don't really see how it concerns you."

Logan tensed beside him. "God," he said, face disdainful. _Orange lilies_ , Scott recalled fondly. "I hate you, Summers."

Scott smiled. "I know." It was a truth he learned on day one. It was why he didn't entertain any other choice but surgery.

"You _know_?" Logan drew away and Scott was leaning into the empty air, searching for warmth before remembering himself and straightening. "You — " Logan sounded ready to journey on a tirade which was unnecessary. How many times had he cursed Scott's name? Threatened to skewer him? Flipped him off? Of course he knew. They both did. But then Logan changed tracks, his eyes widening and his breath leaving his body as if coming upon a revelation. "You're still going through with the surgery, aren't you?" he accused.

"Of course." Was it even a question? He'd have to be more frugal in the future, along with selling a kidney or two, but he would pay it off. Eventually. "The sooner I get the surgery, the less recovery time I'll have to go through. Unless," he added, "you're suggesting I drop dead from asphyxiation because so-called 'love' or not, I'm not giving you anything in my will."

"Ya really think that low o' me?" asked Logan. There was something in his voice. Wistful? It was hard to tell.

"I don't know. One day it's like we're friends and the next we're at each other's throats."

Logan smiled. "Ain't that the truth." Then his smile fell. "Ya got a date for your surgery yet?"

"Two weeks from now. It can be earlier if you sign—"

"I ain't signing it."

"You love making my life difficult, don't you?"

"Fuck off, you like making your own life difficult."

He was right. It wasn't as if Logan asked Scott to fall in love with him. They fell into an uneasy silence after that, until finally, Logan stood in front of Scott again. "You're on bed rest until the surgery."

Scott spluttered, "You can't ground me. We're not even on a mission."

"You're coughing up blood. Rules dictate that means bed rest. Rules you established, Cyke."

"I'm fine. I can't stay in bed for two weeks." He surged up, ready to fight if need be, but Logan placed his hands on his shoulders and leaned in real close.

"Rest," he commanded. "Does anyone even know you're sick, or did you decide to keep it to yourself like the repressed little soldier boy you are? Judgin' by the fact that no one stopped you from teachin', I'm gonna go with door number two."

"Not true. Hank knows," he argued.

"And lemme guess, he told you you should take it easy, but you ignored him."

Scott didn't answer, which was as good as answering.

"Bed rest," Logan commanded, his firm hands pushing Scott further until he was horizontal on the bed. He tugged the blankets over Scott's shoulder, patted him on the hand as if he was a toddler, and then said, "Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Close 'em!"

A hand tugged on his visor. He closed his eyes tight as Logan pulled them from his face. He concentrated on the sound of the arms snapping closed and the clack as they landed on the dresser. Then the drawer opened and his flexible but reinforced sleep mask landed on his head and he rushed to put it on. Then in a classic Logan maneuver, there was a _snikt_ , a crash that signified broken machinery, and then footsteps retreating.

"Logan!" he yelled as he fumbled his way past a half-empty glass of water he didn't remember setting aside, to the remains of his broken alarm clock.

"I owe you one!" called Logan as he turned off the lights. "Now sweet dreams, Slim. I better not see ya up before noon or else."

The doors closed behind him, and Scott suppressed the urge to scream.

.

His students having been told not to attend class thwarted his attempts at teaching. A temporary lockout of his account thwarted any attempts to train in the Danger Room. The fear of staining the paper with blood and saliva thwarted his attempts at paperwork, and if Logan weren't finally doing his job, Scott would've torn the man a new one.

A knock sounded on his door. Scott half-hoped it was a supervillain looking for a fight.

"Come in," he called. "Unless you're Logan, then go die in a ditch."

"Guten morgen, Scott!" cheered one Kurt Wagner as he pushed the door open with his tail, a tray in his hands. Scott groaned. Kurt set the tray on the dresser, chicken soup and a stack of crackers, and put his hand on his hips. He had a stern countenance, but his tail betrayed him, waving behind him in happy cursive flows. "How is Herr patient this morning?" he asked. He was way too into the nurse thing.

"I'm sick, Kurt, but I'm not sick enough that I can't make my own food."

Kurt tutted. "Logan was very clear. Make sure Scott does nothing that worsens his condition. Letting Scott sneak out to go out for a morning run counts as strenuous."

"Logan's a bastard. Also, I'm aware of what bed rest means. I wouldn't have gone for a run." A few laps in the pool though…

Kurt didn't bother replying, instead setting the tray on his bed. When Kurt first showed up at his door, he'd been afraid that Logan had spilled about his condition and all the little details that entailed, but as far as Scott was aware, the school thought he had a sore throat and tonsils that might need removing, and nothing else. Not the greatest cover story, but not the worse Logan could conjure either.

"Have you been feeling better, Meine Freund?"

"I have." And it was the truth. He hadn't coughed petals in a while, and while his throat was still sore, it didn't hurt to talk anymore.

"Then will you say that Logan was right, and you needed bed rest?"

Scott scowled.

Kurt laughed. "Oh, the face you make, you must see it. It's like sucking sour lemons!"

Scott scowled harder before easing back and laughing. Kurt always had a way of making even the most boring, restless days bright. They talked for a while of the kids, the school, a new reality TV show that had caught Kurt's eye. An hour passed in good company before Kurt checked the time and his tail raised in alarm. He had a German class to teach in five minutes, he explained, before booking it for the door. (As if he couldn't teleport to his class in five seconds.)

"Kurt?" called Scott.

"Hmm?" The mutant turned around, tail hooked in a question mark.

He wanted to ask about Logan. He hadn't seen the man since that night… but then, what did he expect? One evening leaning on each other held no real meaning or take away the weirdness. If anything, it compounded it.

"Thanks for the soup," he said instead, smiling. "It's much appreciated."

"Anytime, Herr patient!"

Yeah, way too into the nurse thing.

.

Professor Xavier had taken to playing chess with him while he was in house arrest. They played after dinner, talking through administration responsibilities, strategy, and teaching duties and whatever else sprang to mind. They were on the subject of the Great Gatsby and its effectiveness as a teaching material, when suddenly the Professor said, "You should do another check-up before your surgery."

It was a non sequitur, but Scott had grown used to those from the professor. "They're going to do another checkup at the hospital."

"Before then," the Professor insisted. He still had given no sign whether he noticed their flimsy cover story, or his actual diagnosis and for whom, but there was a knowing twinkle in his eyes which suggested he knew more than he let on. Scott nodded and didn't press his mentor.

"Okay, I'll get another check-up," he promised.

.

He breathed in deep as Hank instructed, a stethoscope once again pressed against his chest. Hank tilted his head as he exhaled, a frown on his face.

"Scott, when was the last time you expelled a flower?"

He cast his mind back. The last time… It had to be the second day of his forced bed rest. He'd been coughing petals nonstop, but then it petered out come dinner time. After that, it felt as if he could finally breathe easy again. He breathed in deep and relished the smooth expanse of his lungs. "Five days ago," he answered. "Is something wrong?"

"How do you feel about taking more x-rays?"

.

"Amazing," said Hank. They had taken x-rays, MRIs, cheek swabs, and blood tests. Hank was staring back at the results with awe. "According to these, you're cured."

Scott shot up like a rocket. "What? How is that possible?"

"It isn't. Or at least, it shouldn't be, not without surgery."

"Then how…?" A thought struck him then. "Does it have to do with the x-gene? Does it negate the flowers or…?" The x-gene was still such a large unknown and pulmoflorosis so rare, but it was the only thing that made plausible sense.

"It could be a factor of the x-gene," said Hank in a tone that stated he thought it unlikely. "There's not a lot of correlating research between the two, so I can't say either way. There is, however," Hank adjusted his glasses and continued, "a much simpler possible answer."

"Go on," urged Scott. His stomach clenched as Hank hesitated.

"Well, typically, pulmoflorosis is only curable in two ways. Surgery or reciprocation. This sudden cure could mean that Logan has reciprocated your feelings."

The words hit Scott out of the park and straight into outer space. He laughed, slowly at first, before ramping up louder and louder. "You think Logan's in love with me? What — how would my body be able to even tell?"

"There are a lot of unknown variables with pulmoflorosis. It might be pheromone-based, in which case, it would be as simple as Logan's body distributing chemicals and your body—"

"That is _ridiculous_ ," interrupted Scott. He didn't mean to, but the world was falling off its axis and he had to fix it. "A person in love doesn't let the other suffer for a prolonged period of time with a potentially fatal disease." If Logan loved him, wouldn't he have wanted to end his suffering as fast as possible and signed the form for him? No, more to the point, wouldn't he have told him? Logan wasn't a shy guy by any means — their first meeting popped in his mind, the disdain on his face, the handshake ignored — the man flirted with his fiance! There was negative possibility Logan was in love with him.

"By your accounts of romance, a person in love also doesn't curse their loved one's name constantly, but you seem to do that every day, regardless. Perhaps the reason Logan didn't sign the health insurance form was that he couldn't. Because by doing so he would write in ink that he rejected you and deep, deep, deep in his heart, he didn't want to.

Scott's mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. His mind tried to process the words, but there were too many contradictions and upset preconceived notions. Finally, he said, "That is the most _insane_ thing I've ever heard."

Hank sighed. "Either way, through reciprocation or other means, you're cured and you don't need the surgery. Scoot along now, Scott, I'm sure you have things to do, paperwork to file, people to contact."

He groaned.

Great. He needed to call his health insurance agent. Again.

.

"My pulmoflorosis is gone," stated Scott. He had searched the grounds to find Logan, aware that the man might've been avoiding him, only to find him in the last place he expected, his office. Which was for the better. Less chance of an audience this way.

"You got the surgery early?" Logan leaned forward, his eyes wide; searching; an edge to his stance. His voice had cut off near the end as if he had been the one infected by a respiratory disease.

Interesting.

"No," he said, "it went away naturally if you could believe it. I thought it might have been because of the x-gene, but Hank had another idea."

"Oh?" Logan eased back into his seat, his brow lifted. His pose screamed, 'not a care in the world,' but he'd already shown his hand. Scott placed his palms flat against the scratched up desk and leaned in, gaze steady.

"Hank thinks it disappeared because it's requited."

The proverbial tightrope was fraying now, disconnecting one thread at a time. Scott stayed where he was and waited. Finally, Logan sighed, but didn't shy away. "Well, y'know, the Doc," he said. "He's right more often than not."

Scott worked his jaw and flexed his fingers. He waited for more, but when none came forth, he bit out. "That is the cruddiest love confession I have ever heard."

"Whaddya want from me? Yours wasn't exactly a tearjerker either!"

Scott slammed his hands on the desk. "Why not say something!?" he exploded.

"Look, we both know I ain't exactly good with the mushy gushy. 'Sides, I was gonna say something before the surgery, but I guess the thing said it for me." There was a hint of red on his cheeks and he couldn't meet Scott's visor. It shouldn't have been as endearing as it was.

"You're insufferable," Scott hissed. He grabbed Logan by his stupid white tank top and pulled him over his desk into a kiss. It wasn't a sweet kiss, more harsh panting and a month's worth of frustration wrapped in lips and heat and teeth, but that wasn't a surprise. What else was there to expect? Scott drew away and shoved Logan back into his chair. "I hate you," he declared.

Logan was grinning, hair a mess and smile sharp with bloodlust. "That kiss and the petals on my shoes state otherwise, bub, but," he got up and ventured around the desk, wrapping an arm around Scott's waist to pull him in. The kiss this time was softer, but no less passionate, a simple slide of lips against lips as one hand cradled the back of Scott's. "Hate you too," Logan said when he drew back. Like a promise.

Like, " _I love you_."

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/Neverweremine1)
> 
> \---  
> 1) Pulmonary = relating with lungs. Flos = flowers. osis = disease. Mush that all together and I came up with pulmoflorosis. Not as catchy as hanahaki but shh.
> 
> 2) The flowers Scott coughed up and couldn't identify are as follows, according to Google.  
> \- Orange lilies: pride, wealth, confidence, which taken to the extreme is disdain, hatred, and arrogance, with lilies overall being known as funeral flowers.  
> \- yellow chrysanthemums which mean slighted love.  
> \- rockets which mean rivalry.  
> \- red carnations mean "i admire you and missing you"
> 
> 3) BIG thanks to greywrites who bid on my auctions for Marvel Trumps Hate 2020 and for who this fic would not exist. If you don't know what Marvel Trumps Hate is then you should check it out on Tumblr!


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